“What of her?” cried he, sternly.
“Nothing.”
“I know what you would say: that she has told you many delightful tales of my cruelty, as you call it; well, let the old woman have her say: women and children should never be contradicted; her crazy ward will not live long; I only retain her now because she can manage her better than any other. When Isodore dies she shall go quickly: and as for you, signora, learn that I take neither reproof nor advice from my wife however much I love her: and beware how you provoke my anger thus a second time.”
He stamped out of the room, and his heavy tread re-echoed along the corridor. Amazed at his temper, I sat still, thinking over what he had said, and wondering if he had spoken the truth: which, in that case, would have been some extenuation of his fault, when Pasiphae came rushing into the room, her face expressing the greatest terror, and frantically wringing her hands, she threw herself on her knees before me, and stared, without speaking.
“What is the matter, Pasiphae? what has happened? what ails you?” I cried.
“Oh, terrible! my lady. When I went back to the rooms, an hour ago—when I left you here with master—I found Lady Isodore had got out of her room. Frightened nearly to death, I went to hunt her. It seems she had wandered along the corridor, which is dark and gloomy in the evening, and not seeing the great staircase, tripped over it, and fell from top to bottom, fracturing her skull, and bruising her body dreadfully. I found her lying senseless at the bottom of the steps, and got the men to carry her up to bed. Oh! come with me, dear lady; come quickly? she may be dead even now.”
I needed no urging to fly through the dim galleries, to the deserted apartments: Pasiphae following as fast as her legs would carry her. There, stretched on her couch, apparently lifeless, her wild face cut and gashed with wounds, blood streaming from her head, lay poor Isodore. The physician was already in attendance, bathing the blood from her face and head, and two or three of the household domestics, in astonishment, beheld what they had never dreamed of before,—that the deserted wing of the castle was tenanted by a lunatic. Her existence there, during the period of her insanity, had always been a mystery,—known but to one or two, who carefully guarded the secret,—and they now stood gaping in stupid wonder.
I assisted the physician in bandaging that poor head, and applied aromatic vinegar to her hands and nose. The esculapius eyed her with that peculiar expression physicians bestow on those whose case they consider hopeless. For an hour, perhaps, she lay insensible. I stood rubbing her hands, while tears fell fast from my face on that poor distorted one.
Presently a slight shiver ran through her frame, her eyes opened spasmodically, then closed again: she opened and shut her hands like one in intense pain, then she groaned sorrowfully. Old Pasiphae buried her weeping countenance in the pillows of the bed.
“Doctor,” said I, “tell me the real truth; will she recover from these terrible wounds?”